


the quiet corner of your heart

by wordstruck



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Bokuto Can Cook In This One, Falling In Love, Fluff, M/M, Mild Disaster Gay Kuroo, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:22:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23579854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordstruck/pseuds/wordstruck
Summary: “You haven’t eatenmyfood though,” Bokuto points out with a too-big grin. He then grabs Kuroo by the wrist to tug him along faster, leaving Kuroo trotting to keep up. They’re already out of the building by the time Kuroo realizes Bokuto meanshisfood, which meansBokutowill be cooking food, which means Bokuto will be in a kitchen withkniveswhile possibly wearing an apron and Kuroo is not mentally prepared for this. He figures he needs at least a week and a revision to his last will and testament. He considers texting Kenma to stage an intervention.Meanwhile, oblivious to Kuroo’s internal meltdown, Bokuto keeps walking. His hand is still around Kuroo’s wrist, palm big and warm.
Relationships: Bokuto Koutarou/Kuroo Tetsurou
Comments: 20
Kudos: 250





	the quiet corner of your heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Slumber](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slumber/gifts).



> this was supposed to be a warm-up fic but clearly it got away from me. written because 1) i told slumber about bokuroo at university and then got hooked on the idea; and 2) slumber has a grudge against lettuce and i'm vindicating myself. i make no apologies. viva la arugula revolucion.
> 
> anyway i speedwrote this in like, an hour in between other work, while playing my "soft" playing on spotify. this is my way of indulging two of my favorite bokuto HCs — that he's a trust fund baby (look, he's spoiled and oblivious, i'm allowed to say rich parents) and that he can (surprisingly) cook. a little slow to learn recipes, but he practices the stuff he can make until he can make them well. not beta'd in the slightest, so will edit in retrospect.
> 
> this is my first time writing bokuroo so i hope you like it!

* * *

The invitation to dinner comes while they’re studying together in the library.

Specifically, Kuroo is studying, almost nose-to-page with his Anatomy of Human Movement lecture notes. On the other side of the table, Bokuto has his face mashed into his Comm 10 reading, possibly in an attempt to absorb information by osmosis. Kuroo’s been here three hours, while Bokuto showed up half an hour ago, after his practice had ended. Privately, Kuroo actually feels impressed it took a full thirty minutes before Bokuto gave up.

“Kuroo,” the other boy whines.

“Mm.”

“I’m hungry.” Bokuto kicks his feet under the table, catching Kuroo’s ankles. One foot lingers, dragging just under the hem of Kuroo’s cuffed jeans. He ignores the blush of heat that follows, highlighting a sentence with more force than strictly necessary.

“So go eat,” he replies instead, crossing his ankles under his chair. “I’m not asking you to stick around, you know.”

The silence that follows stretches on long enough that Kuroo glances up, disconcerted. Bokuto has his chin propped on his reading, cheeks puffed in a pout and brow furrowed. No six-foot-two athlete should have the right to look that adorable, especially with that hairstyle.

“What?” Kuroo finally demands in an attempt to stave off his self-consciousness.

“When didja last eat a cooked meal?” Bokuto asks.

“Uh.” Kuroo opens his mouth, closes it. Frowns. “I had Coco Ichi three days ago.”

“No, like.” Bokuto tips his head to the side so his cheek is squished to the page. “Actually cooked food. From a stove. For cooking.”

“Pretty sure they cook food on a stove at a restaurant,” Kuroo points out. He highlights another sentence. Bokuto pouts harder, then suddenly sits up.

“I have decided,” he announces, packing up all his stuff. He has, Kuroo notes, made a rather large mess for someone who didn’t actually do anything academic. He also doesn’t say _what_ he’s decided, but Kuroo shrugs it off. He’s about to return to (aimlessly) highlighting his lecture notes when Bokuto reaches across the table and starts packing _his_ stuff up too.

“Hey—!” Kuroo looks up in affront. “I was reading that.”

“Not anymore, you’re not!” Bokuto replies cheerfully, stuffing notebooks and stapled papers haphazardly into his own bag. Kuroo’s bag sits helpfully open two feet away, but that doesn’t seem to matter. “C’mon, you’re coming with me.”

Kuroo sits helplessly, highlighter in hand, as Bokuto starts walking away while holding his schoolwork hostage. “To what?”

“My apartment!” Bokuto waves impatiently. Kuroo takes half a moment to assess his chances of getting out of this (zero), then grabs his bag and shuffles after his friend. Bokuto grins, shoving his hands into his hoodie pockets as they exit the library. “I can’t leave a bro to live off instant noodles forever.”

“I eat food,” Kuroo says defensively. Admittedly, ‘food’ is usually convenience store boxed meals, but those still contain rice and protein and the occasional vegetable. Perfectly acceptable.

“You haven’t eaten _my_ food though,” Bokuto points out with a too-big grin. He then grabs Kuroo by the wrist to tug him along faster, leaving Kuroo trotting to keep up. They’re already out of the building by the time Kuroo realizes Bokuto means _his_ food, which means _Bokuto_ will be cooking food, which means Bokuto will be in a kitchen with _knives_ while possibly wearing an apron and Kuroo is not mentally prepared for this. He figures he needs at least a week and a revision to his last will and testament. He considers texting Kenma to stage an intervention.

Meanwhile, oblivious to Kuroo’s internal meltdown, Bokuto keeps walking. His hand is still around Kuroo’s wrist, palm big and warm.

The first thing Kuroo thinks when they arrive at Bokuto’s place is that his friend lives in a nice apartment.

He then amends that thought, because Bokuto lives in a _nice_ apartment. Kuroo’s entire dorm room could fit in the common space. The 1LDK is full of Bokuto’s personality — running shoes lying in the genkan, posters all over the walls, various articles of clothing lying over various surfaces — and pretty spacious for one student-athlete living on his own. Kuroo’s gaze catches the partly-opened bedroom door and he turns abruptly, face warming. Bokuto just happily continues talking about how he has a hard time keeping the place neat on his own but he feels he’s managing.

“My mom comes like, once a month to make sure it’s clean,” he tells Kuroo, dumping his bag on the comfy-looking couch before heading for the kitchen. “But I actually swept the floor last weekend! Pretty great, huh?”

There are two fist-sized dust bunnies sitting under the coffee table. Kuroo looks at Bokuto’s eager, boyish smile and resolves to never mention them, ever.

“That’s great, Bokuto,” he says, hesitating just a moment before dropping his bag on the cushions as well. He follows Bokuto to the kitchen, pulling out one of the stools lining the counter. It feels like a safe enough distance in case Bokuto sets something on fire. While Bokuto starts digging around his cabinets and refrigerator, pulling out various ingredients, Kuroo lets his gaze wander. It’s a surprisingly well-stocked kitchen — there’s a handful of condiments in bottles on the counter beside a smoothie blender (which makes him inwardly snort, because Bokuto truly is a jock at heart). There’s a plastic bowl of apples and oranges beside an assortment of snacks in various containers. There’s a giant jar of MnMs beside the toaster. And there’s Bokuto wielding a large knife as he begins chopping vegetables.

Kuroo sits up in alarm, almost toppling from his stool. His mind supplies him with horror images of too many accidents (which, in his very vivid fantasies, Kuroo will have to explain to the volleyball team coach while at the hospital). But his mind begins catching up with the neat little motions of Bokuto’s wrist as he dices carrots on a cutting mat. There’s a bowl of leftover rice by Bokuto’s elbow, alongside a leek and three eggs. In the sink, a pack of Chinese sausages is thawing.

Slowly, Kuroo settles back onto the stool, lulled by the rhythmic sounds of chopping and Bokuto humming quietly under his breath. It feels — warm, really, and absurdly domestic. He’s more than a little surprised at how calm Bokuto is in the kitchen, his usual exuberance tempered into sure and easy motions. His friend looks right at home prepping the food, sweatpants low on his hips, shirt tugging pleasantly with his movements. When Bokuto glances his way to find Kuroo staring, his friend actually blushes.

“What?” Kuroo asks, smile widening to a cat-canary grin. Bokuto ignores him, whisking the eggs a little harder than necessary. It makes Kuroo laugh softly under his breath, but he snags Bokuto’s attention again. “You’re good at this. I’m just a little surprised.”

The whisking slows down. Bokuto’s expression turns a little contemplative as he adds a pinch of salt to the bowl. “My mom taught me,” he admits, setting the eggs aside and taking a pan down from the rack. “I was, uhm. Kind of. Excitable as a kid, which, ah. Not that it was _bad,_ but sometimes I—”

“I get it, dude,” Kuroo cuts in, smothering a snort.

“Anyway.” Bokuto’s cheeks are faintly pink as he settles the pan on the induction stovetop. “She got me to cook to slow me down, sorta. ‘Channel my energy into something productive’,” he adds, drawing air quotes with his fingers, and Kuroo can instantly imagine a much younger Bokuto, over-eager in the kitchen. It makes his heart feel too big for his chest. “When I was a kid I used to think it was _so cool_ when all the ingredients went together and became — y’know, food.”

Kuroo cocks an eyebrow. “When you were a kid, huh.”

“Quit being mean to me,” Bokuto huffs, trying to glare. It doesn’t quite work, so he just turns and goes back to where he’s cooking the carrots in butter. “But yeah, just — ‘m not great at learning recipes, but I practiced a lot. And I can cook a bunch of stuff now. ‘S a good thing to know.”

Kuroo sits quietly for a moment, watching the other boy wait for the carrots to go soft in the pan, rice on hand so he can add it after. Bokuto’s movements are smooth and efficient, much like he is on a volleyball court. The apartment fills with the smell of cooking food and the sound of Bokuto resuming his humming. 

(There is a small urge, in a corner of Kuroo’s heart, to walk over and wind his arms around Bokuto’s waist. To hook his chin over a strong shoulder, to try to sneak carrots out of the pan only to have his hand smacked away. To trace a finger down the meridian of Bokuto’s spine, breathe in the smell of his apple-scented shampoo.

 _Hush,_ Kuroo tells his stubborn heart, and buries that urge where he can’t see it.)

A little later and Bokuto asks Kuroo to get the jug of barley tea from the fridge while he serves their food. It’s a simple meal — fried rice with eggs, sausage, and carrots; instant miso soup on the side; pre-shredded lettuce with dressing. But it’s the first warm, home-cooked meal Kuroo’s had since the last time he’d visited home, and Bokuto looks so _nervous_ and hopeful as he sets the bowls and plates on the coffee table. So Kuroo bites down his teasing grin as he settles onto the floor, muttering a quick thanks before picking up his chopsticks and starting to eat.

His first mouthful singes his tongue, rice still fragrantly steaming in its bowl. But he eats another, and another, and the warm food settles in his stomach beside the emotion he still doesn’t want to name.

“Huh.” A corner of his mouth quirks up as he eats another mouthful.

“Oh god it’s terrible,” Bokuto finally bursts out, dropping his chopsticks to the rug.

“What? No, dude, this is good.” Kuroo sets his utensils down and reaches for his soup bowl. “Like really good, holy fuck, I should marry you.”

“Yeah?” Bokuto’s expression goes from forlorn to ecstatic, and he finally begins digging into his own meal, which saves him from having to see Kuroo’s mortified expression. “I’d make the _bestest_ husband, I make great curry and I can actually do laundry right most of the time, and you’d get to say you married the _best_ ace in Japan—”

“Bokuto, you tripped over your own feet on flat ground yesterday,” Kuroo deadpans, once he’s recovered himself. He stifles his laughter with another serving of rice as his friend squawks in protest. 

“Be nice or I won’t make curry next time,” Bokuto grumbles around a mouthful of lettuce, and Kuroo can’t even retort because his heart is tripping at the mention of _next time._ He stuffs more rice into his mouth as a cover.

They finish their meal companionably, with Bokuto flinging grains and carrots around with his gestures. They talk about the upcoming practice match, and whether Bokuto will make the starting lineup this season, and Kuroo’s annoying Ergogenics Nutrition professor. Bokuto gets a smudge of sesame dressing at the corner of his mouth and Kuroo fights desperately not to kiss it off.

(He wants this. He wants to stay like this, here, with Bokuto and his cooking and his big smiles. He wants to take this warm feeling and bottle it up, tuck it away between his ribs and his lungs.)

“Sure you don’t wanna stay?” Bokuto asks for the third time as they’re cleaning up. Kuroo had offered to do the dishes in exchange for the meal, so now he’s wiping his hands while Bokuto stacks bowls in the drying rack. “The couch is comfy and we can go to school together.”

“It’s fine.” Kuroo flicks Bokuto on the forehead, dodging the retaliatory swipe as he exits the kitchen to retrieve his things. “I need to finish reviewing my notes, and I won’t get anything done if you’re around.”

“I’ll study too!” Bokuto counters valiantly. When Kuroo stares at him sidewise, he grimaces. “Okay I won’t, but—”

“It’s fine,” Kuroo reiterates, smiling. “I’ll see you tomorrow for lunch, yeah?”

Bokuto’s expression is still scrunched, but he sighs. “You’d better. I’ll bring the leftovers and we can share!”

Kuroo’s heart does something funny in his chest. “Sure,” he says. “I’d like that. Anyway, I should, ah. Go.”

“Okidokie.” Before Kuroo can respond, he finds himself swept up in a massive hug. Bokuto squeezes him tight, and then— “Text me when you get back to your dorm, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Kuroo replies dazedly, stepping away and towards the door. “Thanks, uh — for dinner. And all this. I’ll bother you for the curry next time I’m free.”

“Anytime!” There are so many soft edges to Bokuto like this — hair mostly down now that the day has worn away the hair product, smile warm and sincere, feet bare on his floor. “Good night.”

“‘Night,” Kuroo echoes, closing the door behind him. He pauses a moment, then heads for the stairs. He’d take the elevator, but he really needs to walk off the staticky feeling in his chest, because for a moment back there—

(For a moment, in their hug, it had felt like Bokuto had kissed him. Just a brief brush of lips against his cheek, a there-and-gone-again touch that Kuroo is almost sure he’d imagined, but.)

Kuroo’s fingers hover over his face, where a small spot still feels warm. Then he lowers them to the railing as he throws himself down the steps, almost stumbling in his haste. He has no idea what to make of what happened tonight, but there’s a promise of _next time_ burning at the back of his mind.

He exits to the street in a full-out run, cheeks flushed, breath short, heart warm. Hopefully before _next time,_ he’ll have figured this, them, out.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! come say hi on twitter — i'm [@redluxite](https://twitter.com/redluxite) and i'm usually yelling about haikyuu (mostly oikawa). you can check there for ways to support my writing ^__^


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